


Kiss It All Better

by just_one_badwolf



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_one_badwolf/pseuds/just_one_badwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's too short for a summary</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss It All Better

Sherlock and John walked out of the restaurant, laughing with their arms looped together. It was their four year anniversary, and Sherlock had taken John out to have an extravagant meal. The two wore their best suits and had perhaps the best dinner of their lives. They went to find the car, which was parked a few blocks away from the restaurant. When the car was in view, Sherlock stopped John and rested his hands on the man’s shoulders, smiling. “I love you.” he said, his breath visible in the icy air and the puff hit John’s face, like the words nuzzling into his brain. “I love you too.” John said, standing on his tip-toes to kiss Sherlock. He smiled and fell into Sherlock’s arms, and the man lied a kiss on his blonde hair.

The two parted and began to walk to the car, Sherlock just a bit in front of John, and the world stopped turning. The air cracked, Sherlock recognized the gunshot sound and with a heavy heart he turned his head. John lie on the ground, his shoulder bleeding badly. He looked at Sherlock, a tear falling from his eye, and tried to apply pressure to it. Sherlock jolted to his lover and did the same, pressed onto the wound with all of his body weight, which wasn’t much, in attempts to stop the gushing blood. “Call 999! Somebody help!” he screamed, his voice cracking a little. 

The shooter ran away, but dropped the gun. Sherlock noticed but John was more important, more important than anything. Sherlock began to shake nervously, and he knelt to hold John. In his arms John kept bleeding, the bullet had probably hit some artery, Sherlock couldn’t even think. All he was thinking about was that John was about to leave him. John stared up at Sherlock, at the man above him sobbing, tears that clashed with his on his face. 

“It’s not your fault, Sherlock,” John said, choking on his words. “You couldn’t have known, Sherlock. It’s not your fault.” Sherlock pulled John closer and kissed him. The man shook, a chill or something shot through him. “Sherlock I’m- I’m not ready to go. I don’t want to go. Sherlock I, I-” His words faded away and the light from his eyes followed soon. Sherlock screamed.  
John was dead.

Sherlock kissed John’s hair and said, “It’ll be okay, John, it’ll all be okay.” In the corner of his eyes he saw the hunk of metal, the gun that ended John’s life. Sherlock took a deep breath and stood, kissing John’s forehead once more, before he walked to the gun. He stared at the thing, nestled in the snow, and picked it up. There were clear footprints, the footprints or the murderer that killed John, the man he loved. Sherlock followed them furiously.

Merely three blocks away the man who shot John was frantically trying to climb a fence. Sherlock raised the gun, aiming at the man. The man didn’t even turn around, he just kept trying to climb, to get away, and in a second, a bullet tore it’s way through the man’s chest and burrowed into his heart. The murderer fell from the fence, he was dead too.

Sherlock stared at himself, at what he’d done, dropped the gun, and ran back to John. His body was starting to freeze, and he fell to his knees.

Weeks later, Sherlock Holmes is on trial. He is found guilty of second-degree murder for a man named James Moriarty, the man who killed John. He was sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison.

He sits in his cell on a daily basis, cradling his head in his hands. His cellmate was a quiet man, Sebastian Moran, who was arrested for misconduct during war. The story reminded Sherlock of John. The two men didn’t talk much. 

While Sherlock Holmes was a man of reason and silence, talking to the air, to John’s memory, gave him comfort. “Stay with me, John.” He whispers to the wall, thinking of John. “I’m coming, John.”


End file.
